by Erin Evans
Before Lorcan had leaped into Toril and into trouble, he’d made overtures to another collector devil, a paelyrion called Shetai. While his first attempt at gathering information from Shetai had failed and given it far more information about Lorcan than he’d received about the Brimstone Angel, a message had come soon afterward when Shetai had realized Lorcan might have his uses after all.
“No—and be glad,” Neferis said. “Shetai is trouble.”
“Well met and welcome to the shitting Hells. Who isn’t trouble?”
Neferis gave him a dark look. “Shetai’s the one who triggered the fall of Malagarde. Anyone tell you that?”
Malagarde, the Hag Countess, had been the layer’s previous ruler and now her magically twisted body made the layer itself. The ghost of the night hag wailed in the winds, her body seeping fluids still, her heartbeat pulsing in everything.
“So it’s the Vulgar Inquisitor’s fault the walls are constantly ruining my clothes?” He waved toward the door. “Send a messenger to Shetai that I would speak soon. I have warlock business to attend to.”
“Be careful,” Neferis said. “It’s more ruthless than Mother ever was. And I won’t rescue you from the Vulgar Inquisitor either.” She left, and Lorcan sprinted after her, locking the door tight. He fell against it and made himself take several deep breaths.
Find Adastreia, he thought. Then find a way to fix this. He crossed to the iron scrying mirror hanging in the corner beside the portal’s anchor point.
Five Brimstone Angels walking the world. Farideh was his and Havilar was no one’s. Shetai claimed a man called Lachs the Yellow—Lorcan didn’t relish trying to coax that one away. Nasmos was held by a bone devil called Incus, and Adastreia Tyrianicus was kept by a logokron from the Eighth Layer called Kulaga.
Lorcan called up the image of a fortress deep in a pine forest, atop a tor of granite, and studied it, frowning. A Brimstone Angel was a valuable heir, if you were going to collect warlock pacts, and Kulaga and Adastreia didn’t have the luxury of a mysterious protection spell to keep other, overeager collector devils away. If he showed up with Farideh in tow, there was every chance Adastreia and her patron would assume it was an attack: nothing increased a warlock’s value like ensuring their rarity.
Which meant he needed to arrange for Kulaga to be there as well, with as little information handed over as possible. Neferis could be sent, maybe another two erinyes for show—
Lorcan yawned, suddenly, and dread pooled in him. How quickly would Kulaga realize that Lorcan was weakened, maybe addled? The logokron was wily, a practitioner of old true-name magics, and a spymaster with at least half Shetai’s reach, which was nothing to disregard.
And you are the madman who lied to the archduchess, Lorcan thought. Not a skill to disregard.
And if he didn’t, what would happen to Farideh? No, never mind Farideh—how badly would it fall on him if Asmodeus were displeased? That panic built in his chest, a thick cloud he could hardly breathe around. Trying to predict what Asmodeus would be pleased by in the long run was as impossible as trying to guess what his plans were.
But if you don’t guess, Lorcan thought, considering the scrying mirror, you may wind up dead anyway.
• • •
ILSTAN RAN HIS fingertips over the smooth stone, testing the magic laid into it. On the other side of the table, its twin hummed, alight with magic. The murmurings of Azuth matched the pitch of the magic, and together they hummed in Ilstan’s bones.
One death was a trial … one death was a test … perhaps two shall answer the question once and for all …
You will not die, Ilstan thought. I will not let you die.
Many a wizard forgets to plan for death … many a wizard seeks to evade it … none …
The voice trailed away and dread built in Ilstan’s heart as the silence stretched.
The Moonmaiden will come to regret her meddling, the same voice returned, but stronger, more musical somehow. Asmodeus. Where has she gone, my little hero?
Ilstan crouched down beside the table, laden with more scrolls, more magic items than he should have been able to shape. Don’t listen to the voice when it changes, he told himself. He made himself think of the meshing of spells, the network of magic that would link the stones together over the planes. Don’t listen to the voice when it changes.
Why doesn’t he know? The thought slipped in without Ilstan meaning for it to. But why wouldn’t Asmodeus know where to find Farideh, his reluctant Chosen?
Reluctance does not necessarily forestall action … what actions we take are greater currency than our promises and titles … intent multiplies action but does not absolve action …
She helped you, Ilstan reminded himself, curling his fists into his hair. She saved you. He doesn’t mean Farideh.
And what did she save you from? Against his will, Ilstan found his mind flooded with images of his life before he’d left Cormyr, before he’d become the Chosen of Azuth. Striding through the palace of the Purple Dragon. Given the robes of a full war wizard several years before his peers. Given command over contingents even sooner. He’d had the trust of the Crown. He’d had the affection of Princess Raedra. All of that was gone and he would never regain it.
But those memories felt empty, those prizes not so precious. For all he contended with madness, he would not have traded his nearness to the Lord of Spells for anything. The spells he cast as a war wizard were works of craft and care, but they lacked a spark he could not have gained without the Lord of Spells. Was this the difference between being a wizard without a god and with one? Was it what came of being the Chosen of Azuth?
What would happen if the Brimstone Angel succeeded?
“Where is the staff?” Ilstan whispered. “Can you sense it?”
What is the symbol but a fraction of the thing?… When it is lost, what is lost?… Direction, focus, resilience …
The staff is gone, the other voice said.
Little is truly gone … only forgotten …
Where is she? Asmodeus’s voice rang in Ilstan’s head like the pealing of a great bell. Your master dies if the vessel does not.
Ilstan squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t listen to the voice when it changes.
• • •
YOU SEEM UPSET.
Havilar blinked at Alyona’s voice. How long had they sat silent after returning from the fortress? She would have said it was only a heartbeat ago—had she a pulse to count, anyway—but at the interruption, it suddenly felt as though it might have been hours or days or maybe years. I am upset, she said. How could I possibly be anything else?
Alyona crouched down and put her arms around Havilar, who took the offered comfort, trying to ignore the way the difference between what it felt like to be hugged and what it should have felt like made her want to scream.
I know, Alyona said. I was upset too. I was so angry at my sister for such a long time.
If I were you, Havilar said, I would go right on being angry. You’d be justified.
Alyona’s hand rubbed her back for a moment before she released her. Maybe, she allowed, but anger only poisons us. I cannot change the past. I can only change with the future.
Havilar thought that sounded like a lot of rubbish—some things didn’t deserve forgiveness, and trapping your sister in a karshoji soul prison seemed like the top of the list. You sound like a priest, spouting lines like that.
Alyona laughed. Well I am. I was. A devotee of Selûne.
Oh, Havilar said. Well that’s all right.
I’m glad she meets your approval, Alyona said wryly. She has done so much … She … Do you know, when I was a girl, the town watch would lay the bodies of unclaimed dead out behind the temple of Selûne? Bisera would pick their pockets while I kept watch. That’s where the head priestess first noticed me, where she … I was only pretending at first, you see? Trying to keep her attention, trying to keep Bisera safe, but it made an impression, you could say, when she’d come talk to me. No one else cared f
or me like that, except my sister.
Coin bought a lot more than kind words and silly sayings, Havilar thought. But she couldn’t imagine Tam Zawad, the Harper priest of Selûne who was Brin’s superior, dispensing Selûne’s wisdom to a starving child and not passing some bread and dried meat along with it, and a place to sleep as well. What did your sister think about your calling?
Alyona shrugged the way a person did when they knew the answer and they didn’t much like it or like to admit it. She didn’t turn my gifts down when we went adventuring. Everyone’s a god-worshiper when their leg’s broken. Even Caisys … She drifted off again, the smirk at some joke Havilar didn’t know relaxing into something sad and a little defeated. She doesn’t venerate the gods the same way. She was always angry at our lot, not that I would blame her. Not that anyone could blame her. She smiled at Havilar. There—that is something you can relate to at least a little. She doesn’t wish for assistance, she wants to do things on her own.
Havilar frowned. How … How much do you know about me? Or about us?
Alyona smiled. Both. I was broken too.
So you just … watched?
Don’t worry, Alyona said. It’s like a dream. You’re just … You’re there and you’re a part of it … You see so much of a person in their dreams …
That didn’t comfort Havilar. It still meant that Alyona had been there for … well, for everything. Brin and the imps and calling down Lorcan, getting possessed and that time she broke her arm, and everything about Arjhani. You’re there and you’re a part of it—she didn’t want someone else to be a part of it, watching and judging and—
Havilar stood. Wait—do you mean you can go into people’s dreams?
Yes, Alyona said. Bisera’s and … She stopped herself this time, looking abashed. Well, Bisera’s are simplest. The closer you are to someone, the simpler.
I could talk to Farideh, Havilar said. That’s what you mean?
Yes, Alyona said slowly. But it’s … I mean, it’s not so simple. It takes some practice. Especially since she is so far away. What do you want to tell her anyway?
Show me how, Havilar said.
She might not be asleep.
Someone will be asleep, Havilar said, pulling Alyona to her feet. Show me how.
• • •
IF FARIDEH HADN’T been warned about Kulaga’s secretive nature, about Adastreia’s reclusiveness, she wouldn’t have been able to spot the small fortress she and Lorcan were walking into. A sheer cliff face, only reached by a narrow path between two hills. The brush was thick and snagged her cloak and the wrappings on her legs as she pushed through it, toward the broken brown rock face. Even though she could see no one watching, she felt eyes on her and kept her rod in her hand.
She won’t kill you, Farideh thought, repeating Lorcan’s assurances. She’s afraid, but she’s curious.
Though, she added as she reached the gates, never curious enough to look for you. Never that. She blew out a slow breath—she didn’t want Adastreia or anyone else to have come to find her, to have claimed her and taken her from Mehen. So why did it sting to know they hadn’t?
She felt the first of the protective circles as she crossed over it, as if pressing through an enormous spiderweb. The reason they couldn’t use a portal to get any closer. Lorcan cursed as he pushed through the same barrier, but it didn’t stop him.
“How many do you expect there are?” Farideh asked.
Lorcan didn’t answer. He passed her, looking tense—and damp with sweat. Farideh stared at him. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m—” He broke off. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look well,” she caught up with him. “You’re sweating.”
“Well this isn’t my usual constitutional, now is it?”
“I have never seen you sweat. Not once.”
Lorcan looked back at her. “You’re remembering wrong. Please, darling, I’m fine. Come on.”
Farideh was not remembering wrong. The way her clammy skin clung to his, the difference between her hand on his bare back and her hand on Dahl’s—there was no mistaking something had changed in Lorcan. She started to ask him—again—what had happened, but she stopped herself. He didn’t need to know she was worried about him.
You should be more worried about him, she thought, and she wished Mehen were with them. While Lorcan had gone to make the necessary preparations to collect Adastreia, Farideh had donned her armor, belted her sword, and gone to find Mehen, to tell him she was going to go after the other heirs. To ask if he would come along—at least that had been her plan. She knew well enough she shouldn’t be alone with Lorcan, that she needed allies, that she needed her father with her.
But then she imagined a tiefling, a Brimstone Angel, with her eyes or hair or nose. Someone wicked enough to collude with Bryseis Kakistos, wicked enough to leave two newborn babies in the snow and never once be sure of their safety. How many horrible things might she say? How many cruelties would she sling at Mehen? And Farideh would have to ask him to stand there, to listen to all of it and say nothing, do nothing.
She couldn’t ask that of Mehen. She left a note instead.
Following Lorcan through another protective barrier and into the crack in the cliff face, Farideh hoped Mehen would understand. There was so little of this she could protect him from—this one moment of unfair restraint seemed a minor gift.
A grinding sound—two humanlike bodies peeled themselves from living rock, falling into step behind Farideh and Lorcan as the crack widened into a cavern, then the cavern smoothed into an entrance hall lit by hanging balls of light. Intricate chiseled patterns laced the polished stonework as they climbed a short flight of stairs, and another stone golem broke away from a column, leading the way down into the hillside.
“Don’t talk unless I say so,” Lorcan told her. “There’s an order to this. Kulaga will need assurances that we’re not threatening him, that I don’t want Adastreia’s pact. A lot of posturing, a lot of sparring. Don’t tell him why we’re really here. And put away your rod before someone thinks you’re getting ideas.”
“What are you going to tell him we’re here for?” Farideh asked as they entered a long rectangular room, its walls dominated by impossible windows of frosted glass. Sunlight, which could not have possibly come from this deep in the ground, lit the space illumining the woman sitting at the far end of the room, and the ebon-skinned devil behind her.
Here was the source of their purplish-black hair—though Adastreia’s was streaked with silver as bright as her eyes. Here were their swept-back horns, dark and neat. She could see Havilar’s mouth and the shape of her chin, but the rest of Adastreia’s face was softer, her nose a tidy line. She was paler, Farideh thought as she came closer, and shorter too—she would have come just to Farideh’s shoulder, slim as a whip in her crimson gown, her necklace of fine stones. In that moment, by the features she lacked, Farideh imagined she could picture what her father looked like.
Mehen, she reminded herself. Mehen is your father. These are the people who abandoned you in the snow.
But a lump built in her throat anyway as the other tiefling regarded her coldly.
“Well met, Lorcan,” a sibilant voice said. “And Farideh, I believe? The secret Brimstone Angel?”
In her study of Adastreia, she’d neglected the devil Kulaga behind her, still as a statue. Two hands folded over his chest as if in contemplation—two more held halberds, long axes on poles. Kulaga’s skin was as dark as Lorcan’s eyes, his eyes as red as Lorcan’s skin, and a tongue tattooed with a sigil dangled from his mouth. Something about the rune made Farideh flinch. “We meet at last.”
“Well met, Kulaga,” Lorcan said, with a sort of half bow that held an equal mix of fear and disdain. “How fares Cania?”
The logokron’s ruby eyes didn’t leave Farideh. “Do you ask for my sake, or for Archduke Mephistopheles’s?”
“I’m not acquainted with His Highness,” Lorcan said. “So consider my question
to you.”
Kulaga’s long tongue flicked, and Farideh tried not to gag. How did the devil speak around it? “That’s not quite how I’ve heard it—rumors suggest you’ve made yourself the special confidant of His Majesty. Perhaps even his spy and enforcer in Malbolge.”
“Lords of the Nine,” Lorcan said in a haughty way, “but people will repeat anything, won’t they?”
“You’ve been seen talking to Shetai.”
“And now I’m talking to you,” Lorcan said. Farideh slipped the rod from her sleeve once more, tatters of shadow-smoke building along her skin. Kulaga didn’t move, and neither did Adastreia. She didn’t even blink.
“Lorcan,” she murmured.
“Because you want a proper Kakistos heir,” Kulaga finished. “Don’t deny it. You’ve never said how you found a Brimstone Angel the rest of us missed. How you kept her, and yet lost all the rest of your collection. I find that curious.”
Lorcan smiled. “Have you said how you enticed your Kakistos heir? This isn’t something we talk about, so why begin?”
“Why indeed?” Kulaga said. “I hear another rumor—a rumor that this one isn’t what she seems. She was supposed to be a Chosen of Asmodeus by anyone’s tales. I hear too you’re saying all the Kakistos heirs were invested with such powers. As if mine is the false Brimstone Angel. All curious, very curious.”
Lorcan raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps I had bad information.”
“Perhaps you’re using Asmodeus’s temporary favor to get yourself a collection worth speaking of. Regardless, you have nothing I want.”
The Nine Hells prickled at the base of Farideh’s spine for an incongruous moment, as if she’d begun a spell, without doing any such thing—before the air around Kulaga snapped and three immense devils covered in thorns appeared. The two stone golems behind them moved forward, unarmed but for their massive granite fists.
